by Nina Post
“A scrub brush?”
“With the stiff bristles. For cleaning tile,” the cashier said, still without any inflection.
Sarah loaded the cart with the bags.
“I appreciate your help,” Shawn said. The cashier had no change in expression.
He and Sarah went out to the dark parking lot with the cart.
“Do you think she was dead?” Sarah asked.
“I assumed she’d been reanimated.”
They stopped cold. The tires of his Acura were sliced to ribbons, the windshield was smashed, and the sides were keyed. Three long gouges ran along the front fender, front door, back door, rear fender — and the bumper, just to be rude.
Shawn took Sarah’s arm and led her back to the store, where he spoke to the manager and learned they did not, of course, have cameras in the parking lot (because this was “the first time something like this has ever happened”). He spoke to all of the employees, who swore they hadn’t noticed anything — none of them had helped anyone take their groceries out. Then he arranged for a tow, and called a cab.
“Pretty good date, huh? Looking up?”
“Who would do that?”
“All kinds of people.” He shrugged.
“Someone you interviewed?”
“Most likely.”
She rubbed her arms.
“So, what should we do on our second date? Aside from hiring a private security team to keep an eye on us.”
The cab dropped them off at Shawn’s house, where Sarah’s car was parked. He unlocked the front door and took the bags to the kitchen.
He stopped inside to pet Comet.
“One, two, three…” Sarah murmured from the living room. Comet meowed, a little desperately.
Shawn set the cans on the counter and stacked the bags of kitty litter in the pantry. He took care of the used litter, tying them up and dropping the bags in the trash, then went out to the living room. There were twenty-eight of the identical cats on the trampoline.
Shawn sighed. “I’ll probably need a new trampoline at this rate.”
“Do you know what’s going on? How they got here?” Sarah asked.
“No idea. It’s as much of a mystery to me as the case I’m working.” Shawn went back to the kitchen and set up the new trays with new litter. He refilled the bowls with food and water. “But — and I know how this sounds — it seems that one has showed up every hour on the hour since I was called into the Sylvain case.”
“They look exactly the same, Shawn. How do you keep getting new cats that all look alike? It doesn’t make any sense.”
He leaned on the counter to face her and grinned. “Would you believe it’s just to impress you?”
Sarah scrunched up her face. “I’m not impressed, I’m baffled.”
“I’ll take baffled. It’s better than appalled or disgusted.”
Comet meowed again. Shawn kneeled to pet him and check if he seemed stressed.
“Know anyone who wants a cat? Please, please say yes.”
“Not offhand,” Sarah said, also kneeling to pet Comet, who was reveling in the attention.
“Christmas isn’t far off. One for everyone you know.”
“I don’t even know that many people.”
“Extended family?”
“There’s really just my Dad.”
“What about you? Do you have a cat-hostile dog or – “
“No, I don’t.” Sarah folded her arms across her chest. “You know what? I’ll take one. I’ll take Okeo.”
“Oh good. That leaves twenty-seven. That really takes a load off.” He flashed a grin at her, then got up and washed his hands. He double-checked he still had his wallet and badge, then pocketed his keys.
“Back to the office? When do you sleep?” she asked.
“I don’t. Not anytime soon. Can you tell?”
“Just by the dark circles under your bloodshot eyes.”
“That bad?”
“Not really. You need a ride to the office?” she asked, with some sympathy.
“Please.”
He got Comet’s carrier and it only took five minutes to get Comet into it. “I know you don’t want to stay here. You’re just being churlish.”
After getting a secretary to keep an eye on Comet in the squad offices, Shawn requisitioned a basic car from the department’s motor pool and went out to three different convenience stores close to Haviland Sylvain’s house. He was most interested in the earlier hours, when the killer wouldn’t feel so visible, before everyone knew what he had done.
No, they would go before, either to amp themselves up with coffee or soda or sugar, get some energy. Maybe they’d pick up some cigarettes to calm themselves down at the same time. But they’d want to make themselves feel different or better. Maybe they would gas up while they were at it, if only to have a task to do.
A clerk at one of the c-stores, a woman in her twenties named Pamela Wang, was adamant that she hadn’t seen anyone from the photos he showed her. Shawn went through the photos twice and watched her carefully, but she stuck to her statement. She seemed like she was hiding something, so he pushed her a little more, but she didn’t volunteer anything else.
He sat in his crappy motor pool car and looked up at the roof. After it was done, the killer would want to seek shelter where they wouldn’t feel exposed. They probably went straight home. If they were a real cold-blooded asshole, they might want to go into a populated place after, as if to show off, even if no one knew what they did. They might like that feeling of being around people, that sense of power, that surge of the limbic system. ‘I am the hunter, and all of you are the prey.’
But this killer was disorganized — even though they wore gloves, they didn’t plan it much ahead. They wouldn’t feel exhilarated after the murder, like the experienced, organized killer — they would feel exhausted. Shawn believed the murder was personal.
Haviland Sylvain was left at the scene where she was killed, almost certainly by someone she knew, in plain view. She wasn’t transported to a different location. She wasn’t a targeted stranger, especially because she never went out and couldn’t be seen by people who didn’t know her personally. She was a victim of sudden violence. No restraints used, no aggressive acts performed before death, no sexual violation, no torture.
The destruction of her bedroom told Shawn that the killer was tempted to perform sexual acts before or after death, but then transferred their urge to destroying her bedroom. They had probably taken something from there. If he could recognize what was taken, or figure out from his notes and the samples collected at the scene what that souvenir was, then maybe he could find the suspect. The souvenir could have been something he’d already seen — the silver tea caddy or chair at Carolyn Lewis’s shabby apartment, or the music box at Vincent’s. Gifts from their employer, souvenirs of a kill, or just stolen trinkets? What more did they feel they were owed? Haviland paid them well, had treated them well. What more did they want from her?
It was unusual for the disorganized killer to take the weapon with them, or dispose of it. Often, the weapon was left at the scene. Not this time, unless it was somewhere on the grounds he hadn’t seen yet.
He went back to the office and looked in on Comet, who was sleeping, then walked in loops. He stopped by the board a couple of times to look at the photos, the timeline, and the murder book. He missed using his trampoline to think when he was at home, but it was covered with more than two dozen cats.
He was more than a little unnerved about that fact, and what he had seen on Lyle’s TV.
It was more than twenty-four hours into the case, and Shawn had yet to find a solid lead.
If the techs had found a fingerprint in a place where it didn’t belong, like in Haviland Sylvain’s bedroom, that would be helpful. If the techs had found a print in the hidden staircase, which they hadn’t, that would have been helpful. If anyone working at a c-store or a grocery store or a bar had seen one of the employees that night, aside from se
eing Carolyn at Argosy, that would also be helpful. If he could find a souvenir the killer had taken from Sylvain’s room, that could be helpful. If he could find the murder weapon, that would be exceedingly helpful.
He would also take catching someone in a lie or getting an outright confession. Or finding a witness they hadn’t found yet. Or finding a secret garden of buttercup flowers — he snorted a laugh imagining telling that to the other detectives.
He would take anything right now. But he wouldn’t find it pacing around the squad office. Twenty-four hours in, he needed to go out and look at things again. He grabbed the murder book and Comet’s carrier.
He pulled up to the Sylvain mansion less than ten minutes later, missing his car, along with his trampoline. Shawn paused on the stone path to the door, holding the carrier, enjoying the outside for a minute. But just a minute. It was cooler than the day before, with a soft breeze that occasionally turned into a slap, but made him glad to live where he lived. The sky seemed dark, but not cloudy, which seemed odd.
The inside of the house was dimly lit, with only a couple of the lights on, so he ran his hand over the wall feeling for the dimmer wheel and turned it. The ceiling light came in, refracting over the ficus tree and the entrance hall bench. There would probably be a few techs, somewhere, trying to finish covering the entire house.
He wondered what would happen to the mansion. Would the awful Sylvain family take it over and use it as a bacchanalia pad for the twins? Would it become vacant and crumble into disrepair? In this economically depressed area, who would buy it? It would have to be used as a school or some other public-funded place. What would happen to the employees — at least the ones who weren’t involved in killing her?
He took a quick look around the first floor from the entry way, checking the cloakroom that was larger than his living room, looking for a missing chair, tea caddy, music box. He had looked over everything once before, and would probably notice something off or missing.
He poked his head into the WC and flicked the light on then off. He entered the small oak paneled study/game room, with its packs of cards, some of them obvious antiques, and various games, like backgammon, dice, dominoes. There was a poker set and a roulette wheel.
He found another pedal on the floor, one he hadn’t noticed the first time. He pressed it, which opened a secret drinks cupboard with top-shelf bottles, the kind of liqueur that cost more than a hundred per shot. There were several dusty bottles of port, each probably worth more than his own house.
He headed to the right through the dining room, set Comet’s carrier down and looked for Robert Westrom’s locked drawer in the gorgeous serving table. He found it between a drawer for linen napkins and a drawer for tiny silver forks. He jiggled the lock. Then he took out a small pick and worked the lock for a few minutes. No one would hire him as a safecracker, but he got it open, and then dug around in his many coat pockets for a pair of rubber gloves, which he pulled on.
The drawer contained some vendor invoices for the month — landscaping, repaving, pest control — and at the bottom, the codicil to Haviland Sylvain’s will.
Shawn picked it up with his gloved hands, squinted at it. Then he put it back and went into the kitchen to get a freezer-sized plastic bag. He stuffed a few more in his right coat pocket.
Back in the dining room, he dropped the codicil into the bag, then sealed it. He stared at the long table for a moment, then pulled out the chair Westrom said Haviland always used, the one at the head of the table close to the window. He stretched out his legs a little and felt an obstruction. He bent over to look under the table and saw a foot pedal, similar to the one in the game room. For signaling staff? He put Comet’s carrier on the pedal, which pushed it down just enough. Then he jogged over to the kitchen to listen for a dinging sound and found the bell ringing faintly in one of the large pantries. If she was arguing with Westrom here, maybe she signaled for help, but no one heard her.
He returned to the dining room and pulled the carrier off the pedal. Comet made a disgruntled sound.
Shawn wondered if Haviland had people over. She didn’t seem to have any friends. She had Lyle, she had her house employees. Did she stay in contact with anyone from the university where she graduated? The captain had put one of the other detectives onto phone records, and when Shawn checked them over, it didn’t seem that she had made many calls herself, and none of them personal. But he would have to run the numbers by Robert Westrom, when he found him.
He crossed back over the entry way, the carrier in his right hand, the heels of his brogues clicking on the polished limestone floor. He crossed into the drawing room, with its paneled shutters and grand piano and fancy carved fireplace. A wood newspaper rack next to a silk-upholstered chair, a grandfather clock. Nothing missing.
He felt for a light in the library, then went over to an old-fashioned rolltop stationary desk. The rolltop part was locked. He took out his pick for a second time and worked it open. Inside were cubbies on both sides and a large open writing space in the center.
In the middle of the open space, he saw a short pile of fine cream-colored stationery with a tortoise emblem, and a fountain pen perched on top of the stack. He felt around in the cubbies and found more blank stationery, a few old check registers, and a few personal letters from her husband written in a tall, controlled script with very tight loops.
My Dear Haviland,
I was shocked when you told me about your father. As you should know, I am not omniscient in the company, and had no idea that a representative of Sylvain Lumber & Paper had visited your father’s land when you were just a child. I am not comfortable with the accusation that I personally sent this agent down to Peru to “pillage” your father’s walnut trees. I do not even have a record of this happening — no airplane tickets, no expense reports, no rental car, no credit card records, no incidentals recorded. I presume that if a representative from our company had traveled to another country, they would have been given petty cash from the company to exchange, but I have no record of that either.
I hope that you can find it in yourself to forgive me. I certainly had no knowledge of your father’s very odd death, nor the seizing of the lumber without a lease, but do feel terrible upon the hearing of it. It sounds like a terrible coincidence.
I realize that our marriage has not been ideal, and that my family has not helped matters, but we can work together on this. I will dissuade my mother from visiting as often as she does, and from arguing for an heir. I know that you are not receptive to the idea, and to be honest, I do not think I would make a very good father, so I will attempt to keep her from you. But please do not continue to shut me out. Your avoidance of me is painful.
Fondly, Your Husband,
Ludivicus
Shawn read it twice, fascinated, then put it in a plastic gallon-size bag.
In the larger cubbies to the far side, he found a small notebook of equations that were way over his head and presumably physics-related. He was hoping for a journal, but didn’t find one.
Maybe the journal was the souvenir. For some reason Haviland Sylvain struck him as being the sort of person who would keep a journal, so he would keep looking for it.
He walked up the limestone slab stairs to the second floor. Comet woke up and shuffled around the carrier, probably confused over why he was moving and in a strange place.
Shawn went into the master bedroom first, with its corner fireplace and round window. It was still as they found it, in disarray. He went to the fireplace and picked up the German teddy bear the killer presumably had tossed in there. Maybe he intended to set fire to it. The teddy bear must have meant something to her. He palpated the bear like it was getting its annual checkup, checking for anything that was hidden inside, then set it back in the fireplace.
He checked the mattress again, even getting on his back and looking at the underside of the bed for the second time, in case he had missed something before. He felt around, but didn’t notice anything out of
order.
He took out his murder book and flipped through to his list of evidence — everything in this room. He was looking for anything at all, anything that snagged his attention. He checked the headboard, the bedside table, and the underside of the drawers. He felt around the window, the curtains, the fireplace, and the chest of drawers. He ran his hand over the birdseye maple, maple, and cherry, then checked the underside of the walnut armchair. From her father’s trees?
“See anything, Comet?”
Comet made a plaintive sound that Shawn took as hunger. “Me too.”
Shawn went down the hall and turned left into the sitting room, looking first at the bloodstain soaked into the velvet sofa. Then he turned in a circle as he had done at the crime scene, as he just did in the bedroom. He looked carefully over the oak paneled walls, the stone fireplace with its old iron grate.
The woven rug on the floor, where the killer brought down the weapon on her head, had been taken as evidence, as had the red silk pillow. The silver frames of the photographs on the small round table shone under the light. There was the one of Haviland Sylvain with Lyle, and another of Haviland with her husband. He picked up both again and held them next to each other. She had a genuine smile crouching beside Lyle. With her husband, she had the strained not-quite-smile that said, ‘Really? Is this my life?’ Or did it say, ‘Just a little while longer and I’ll be free.’
Shawn had the nagging feeling that Haviland was still trapped in this house, not as a ghost, but in some other way.
He spent less time on the third floor, with thorough looks through the ballroom, including the musician’s balcony, as well as the billiard room, another sitting room, a bathroom, and a few storage rooms. The oak flooring in the ballroom could use refinishing.
Then he stopped at the second floor again and went into Lyle’s bedroom. He knew he could use the login the tech gave him on his office computer or on his phone, or even his computer at home, but there was something about this round screen that felt different. Maybe it wasn’t, but he wanted to turn it on anyway.
